


ocean of trees

by havisham



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: Canon Backstory, Canonical Character Death, False Identity, Hand & Finger Kink, I'm A Lumberjack AND I'M NOT OKAY, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 19:17:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: “Tommy, you dog.”





	ocean of trees

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I went to see _The Lighthouse_ last night and I knew, I just knew that someone in fandom would be ON THAT with Winslow and those tentacles, I mean, TRUST, and I see it. But what about that ghostly blond twink??? I'm concerned??? Because it's pretty clear something happened in that logging camp, right???
> 
> Why'd ya hafta spill the beans!!!!! 
> 
> Anyway, please support and I will find the strength to write Winslow/Wake/tentacles.

Ephraim didn’t like him, though he purported to like everyone on their crew, which was a falsity from the start. No one liked everyone, unless one was a dog sniffing at a man’s bollocks. Perhaps Ephraim was. That would explain how odd he was, with his white blond hair and beatific smile. An angelic boy, completely at odds with the roughness of the rest of the crew. Or with Tommy himself. No one had ever given Tommy an easy time of it, no sir. Ephraim Winslow now, he was just making time on the logging crew for the summer before he would go back to the city. He talked of the life he left there, of his job, his girl, his education. Prideful, prideful Ephraim. 

Perhaps if he had been as soft and as stupid as he had looked, he would have been all right. But he was suspicious instead. And suspicion, like a flower grew, as the old saying went. Ephraim Winslow liked to ask questions. 

He would ask Tommy about his childhood in Minnesota, questions that Tommy could not answer because Tommy hadn’t grown up there. He just said he had, because that was where the rest of them were from. Ephraim would act surprised at the way Tommy’s accent would wander from Saint Paul to Chicago and then jump tracks all the way to New England, from Maine to New Jersey, dipping down Baltimore. It wasn’t Tommy’s fault, see. His folks had never been settling folks -- they always had to be one step faster than the law, and Tommy was forced to be the same way. 

There was no reason for Ephraim Winslow, with his grand name and superior smile, to think he was so much better than the humble Tommy Howard though. God made them all the same. Two eyes, one mouth, two ears, a cock, two balls. All the same. 

The foreman of the camp must’ve sensed that Tommy and Ephraim didn’t get along. Why else did he make them share a tent together? The old pervert must’ve thought the shared tension would generate enough heat to save on some firewood. 

At night, when the work was done, the stars would blaze down on their little tent and the woods would grow quiet and watchful. The stars were never like that under the smoke and lights of the city. Even the cigarettes Tommy smoked couldn’t disguise it. The wind would move through the trees in ways that reminded him of the ocean, though he had never seen the ocean. 

“Come inside,” said Ephraim from inside the tent. “I’m turning off the lamp.” 

“It ain’t even eight yet,” Tommy muttered under his breath. 

“What did you say, Tommy?” 

“Nothing.” 

They huddled together as close as rabbits in a clutch. Even in the summer, it got cold so far up north, and so it wasn’t strange to cling to each other. When Tommy felt Ephraim’s hand stray against his thigh, he thought it an accident, but when it stayed where it was, sleep abandoned him. He didn’t move away, just waited. After a moment, Ephraim’s hand moved closer to his crotch and then pressed close. 

Tommy was breathing hard. It had been so long since someone else had touched him there. He hadn’t wagered on being touched by the likes of Ephraim Winslow but like hell was he going to turn it down. 

Ephraim kneaded his cock for another moment, but it seemed he was losing interest and was going to pull away. That was unacceptable. As quick as anything, Tommy unbuttoned his trousers with one hand, and grabbed Ephraim’s hand with another. “You start something, you ought to finish it.” 

Ephraim’s eyes were light grey -- pale and moon-like. He blinked at Tommy like he didn’t know what he was talking about, like he hadn’t been rubbing his cock in his sleep. 

“I mean it, Winslow,” Tommy said. 

“Or what, you’ll tell the foreman?” Ephraim said with a smirk. He leaned in and kissed Tommy. Tommy let him go and Ephraim’s hands snaked into his trousers. They were cold and they were rough and Tommy came with stars blinding his eyes. 

*

Despite what everyone thought or said or implied, Tommy didn’t kill Ephraim. The poor management of the logging camp killed him, as sure as that his body got stuck on the flume, his head crushed by the incoming logs. Tommy had taken his things -- but old dead Ephraim didn’t need his things. And Tommy didn’t need to take his clothes, because they had switched that morning anyway, by sheer coincidence. 

It was logical. Tommy Howard had no future to speak of -- just darkness and poverty to dog him for the rest of his days. Ephraim Winslow -- he was bright and hard working, and he could go anywhere, do anything. Maybe it was a way to honor Ephraim Winslow, in a way. 

Tommy shook his head, remembering the last thing Ephraim said to him as he lost his footing, the look of betrayal on his face. Why had he expected Tommy to save him? It was another strike against him, that fatal arrogance. 

“Tommy, you dog,” he said. Then he’d toppled over and disappeared into the water. 

No, he wouldn’t take Ephraim Winslow’s name to honor him. 

He took it as revenge. 


End file.
